dreaming of the dead
by rainbow-dango
Summary: "That's the mythos of a superhero, though, isn't it? You can save the world a million times but you can't save yourself." Castle and Beckett find themselves at odds again; a future fic, kind of.
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Wow, it's been awhile. I hope you guys haven't forgotten me. I've been in a sort of writing slump since May-ish, and I've been slowly crawling my way out. I don't know how often this little piece will be updated, or how long it will end up being. Regardless, I hope you enjoy it!_

_(P.S. This takes place in September 2014 - so it'd be the premiere of season seven.)_

_Disclaimer: C'mon. Really?_

* * *

_I love you._

_ I know._

Sometimes, she wants to run so badly that it aches. She researches Hawaii and the Florida Keys and the Caribbean; she looks at ticket prices and memorizes flight numbers. She daydreams and pictures herself in a crowded JFK, alone and anonymous and unburdened. Imagines herself boarding a plane that'll take her away from this city, away from all the ghosts floating around. She'll go someplace that makes her believe her scars have melted away, that reminds her that loss is no physical mark -

_This isn't your fault._

_ I know._

"Beckett?"

The captain's voice startles the detective from her semi-reverie, and she almost doesn't look up. She's sick of the sympathy, of the understanding looks that often borders on pity. She wouldn't say she's perfectly fine, not after only three short months, but she doesn't need to be treated like a child. It's insulting, really, and suffocating too.

"Yes, sir?" She manages, tearing her eyes away from her computer screen, a list of tropical possibilities.

"I need a word with you."

Of course.

She stands - abandoning Bali and Jamaica temporarily - and walks into Gates's office. The older woman is sitting behind her desk and the detective stands in front of it, as she has million times – in front of Gates, in front of Montgomery, beside Castle, beside Castle and Ryan and Esposito.

She braces herself -

"Kate," Gates starts kindly.

She almost begs the captain to yell at her. Scold her for something, punish her for wasting time on a stupid travel website. Anything, anything besides this.

"Go home, detective. Get some rest."

This is wrong. This whole thing is just so entirely wrong. She needs to go back and warn herself and maybe the doctors can –

No. No, she's not going down that road, not right now.

Focus, Kate.

"I don't need rest, sir," says the younger woman through gritted teeth.

"I'll have Detective Esposito call you if we catch a case." Gates insists.

She can barely hold back a scream. She's a functional, capable adult. She can compartmentalize, she can separate her grief from her work. She's _fine_.

"You just got back from maternity leave. I know from experience that you can't just jump back into work," she adds.

Something in Beckett breaks, something that's fragile, that was held together delicately. It explodes and consumes her like a poison and she's not as carefully constructed as she likes to pretend she is.

"It's not maternity leave if you're not a mother," she snaps.

Suddenly, she _wants _to leave, needs to get out. She needs to stroll through that airport, get on the plane, lay on the beach and pretend she doesn't see those goddamn scars. The one between her breasts and that reaches halfway across her stomach.

She storms out of the office, grabs her jacket from the back of her chair, and leaves the precinct without a word.

_We're gonna be fine._

_ Yeah. Of course we are._

_ You don't sound very sure._

_ Neither do you._

* * *

She was fifteen when she started smoking. It was supposed to be a one-time thing, an attempt to impress the boy she had a crush on. Maddie promised it would work, but the boy went home with a pretty junior named Hannan Greenaway. Little freshman Kate was left with a broken heart and a bad habit that lasted until the first anniversary of her mom's death.

After she leaves the precinct, she buys a pack of Marlboros from a nearby drugstore. She walks down the street, leaving her car behind for the moment, and lights a cigarette for the first time in fourteen years. It's uncomfortable at first, before she adjusts, and then it feels good. It feels right, but in a sick sort of way, so she puts the second part out of her mind.

One of her first boyfriends, a curly-haired Adonis named Jeffrey, was really into the fact that she smoked. Found it hot. She reveled in that; in the fact that when she put a cigarette between her lips, she was alluring, mysterious and sexy. The feeling – the rush – of being seen that way was more addictive than anything.

It's different now, of course. As she weaves through the crowd, she feels cold and empty and . . . old. Like her bones have weakened and her heart is steadily slowing behind her ribs. She's hanging by a thread; she's about to give up, lie down regardless of where she is, and sleep forever.

She finds herself wandering into the park, receiving glares because of her cigarette. She sits down on a swing, remembering that night two years before, with her scrambled thoughts and aching heart. The thunderstorm.

A boy coughs, probably from her smoking, and runs off.

She slips a hand under her shirt, running her thumb over the rough scar on her abdomen. A physical memory. Another blemish on her body to remind her of what's been done to her.

With a deep inhale and exhale of smoke, she pulls her hand away and seeks distraction. She watches the kids on the playground, who she can only identify by their hair from this distance. Redheaded curls, blonde pigtails. A little boy with some sort of fauxhawk. An older girl – with dark hair and a round belly – playing with her brother and a twenty-something couple with a baby.

Her heart twists, yearning, but she ignores it. This is supposed to be part of her life and it's not, so it doesn't matter. Her child is gone and that it's. That's all there is.

"Um, excuse me?" Kate hears a child's voice say quietly.

"Yeah?" She responds, looking at the small girl who spoke to her. She looks about four, tiny and doll-like. Exceptionally fair – white-blonde curls, pale skin, big gray eyes.

"My name's Chloe. Are you smoking?" Her voice is high and quick and so utterly innocent.

Kate nods in confirmation. "I shouldn't be, though. Smoking's very bad."

"I know." Chloe replies in an adorably superior tone. "My daddy used to smoke but he doesn't anymore because it made him sick."

Kate nods again, and a woman rushes over, saying, "Chloe! Chloe, there you are!"

The woman - Chloe's mother or nanny, Kate can't tell - scoops the girl up, looks at Kate with suspicion and disapproval, and rushes away. Kate sighs, smoke blowing past her lips.

The woman disappears behind a slide and Kate starts to think about running again. She can pack a small suitcase, drive for days and days until it turns into weeks, and remake herself somewhere far away. She can leave wretched Kate Beckett behind for a woman who's transparent and simple and happy. Maybe she'll have the good fortunate to meet a guy who's transparent and simple and happy. She can forget herself, shed her grief, take one last shot at having a good life.

Her mind - her logical side - chastises her for these thoughts. She has important ties here – to her dad, to mom's memory and her daughter's memory. Even to Castle, still, though she hasn't seen him since she moved out of the loft. And there's her commitment to her job; how it's become such a part of her. Her heart is firmly planted in New York City, even when she'd rather rip those roots out. She's Detective Kate Beckett, NYPD, and sometimes she swears she doesn't know how to be anything else.

That's the mythos of a superhero, though, isn't it? You can save the world a million times but you can't save yourself.

Her heart is so unbearably heavy, and she's about to leave when –

"Beckett?"

_Castle?_

* * *

_A/N: I don't know anything about smoking, really, so don't blame me if Marlboro is a horribly terrible brand or something. I'm too much of a goody two-shoes to smoke, so, what are you gonna do? I hope you liked it._

_Thoughts?_

_-Ellie_


	2. Chapter 2

_A/N: Hi, guys. I'm so, so sorry about the delay. I meant to update, and then school happened. I also got a job, so (on weekdays) I don't really have time to myself until 5:30-ish. Which is kind of a bummer, but at least I'm making money, right? So, in the midst of all that, time got away from me. But finally - finally - I got this chapter written. You won't have to wait until November for chapter three, I promise._

_Anyway, I'll shut up now so you can get your hands (eyes?) on the chapter you've waited so very patiently for. :)_

* * *

He's frozen.

When she left, they both felt the finality of the action. So much rubble laid at their feet, the pitiful ruins of five wonderful years, of all those promises and all the plans they'd made. They couldn't cope with the destruction; they pretended to heal, but every kiss, every touch, was terribly forced. Faked.

It was Kate who started their first real conversation since that day in the hospital. It was Kate who made the difficult decision to move out. To end their relationship, lay it to rest with their child.

He was sure he'd never see her again.

And now –

Her name escapes his lips before he thinks about it, before he considers the consequences. But that's just who he is, isn't it? Rushing into things before he understands them (writing novels about a woman before he understands her).

She looks up like a startled animal, eyes wide and shoulders tense. Her face seems hollowed and she's skinnier, definitely a lot skinnier. She's . . . smaller, somehow, fragmented bits of herself.

"Hi," he presses, when she doesn't answer.

"Hi," she breathes out, gasps really, and then curls her fingers gently around her throat. Like she wants to trap the words inside, imprison them.

(It's only fitting, the – normally unseen – sardonic side of him pipes up. She is a cop.)

He steps closer hesitantly. She watches him warily as he gently sits down on the swing next to hers. Her eyes are firmly fixed on the ground, her nails scratching nervously at the hollow base of her throat, and she speaks quietly, almost as if she doesn't want him to hear.

"I quit smoking fourteen years ago," she tells him. He can do the math; he knows who quit for, he knows who she must feel she's disappointing now. He wants to tell her that she isn't, that they both love her very much, but the words won't form.

He expects some sort of elaboration, but she just places the cigarette between her lips. _Touch her_, the voice in his head advises. _Touch her arm, hold her hand. Pull her hand away from her neck and tell her it'll all be okay. Tell her you love her._

That voice speaks often, but it's usually stifled by another, the part of him that knows Kate. It advises him, today, not to push it. To give her space. Because she is not a woman who will do with being suffocated, especially now, especially by him.

"I used to smoke, until Alexis was born," he offers.

She nods, a jerky sort of nod, and maybe he shouldn't have said anything. Maybe he shouldn't have mentioned Alexis, maybe he should've insisted on taking her to the hospital when she had Braxton-Hicks contractions. Maybe he should've done more to make sure his daughter entered the world safely.

(Maybe he should stop his thoughts from veering off onto irrelevant tangents.)

"Doesn't surprise me," she says softly, smoke curling in her breath, the smallest hint of a smile on her lips. "Either part."

"I feel like I should be offended by that." He replies. A little lightheartedness would do them both good, he thinks.

(It's not a surefire way into her heart, but it can't get worse than this. He can't push her farther away than she already is.)

But she – _laughs_.

It's a small sound, almost inaudible, but it's unmistakable. He made her laugh. He made her laugh and it feels so inexplicably like triumph. Like he's scaled Mt. Everest or finished a whole novel in one night.

Her smile turns soft and his memory's suddenly blank, all cautiousness gone.

"I miss you," he blurts out. "I miss you so much, Kate."

Slowly, reluctantly, she reaches out and takes his hand, threading fingers through his. Her hand is cold; he clutches it tightly.

"I'm so sorry, Castle," she murmurs. "I'm so sorry for . . . for all of this."

She blames herself.

He already knew this, but it still feels like a punch to the gut. It wasn't her fault. Isn't her fault. Sometimes people die and there's nothing you can do, nothing you could've done to prevent it. Sometimes babies die unborn and sometimes it's not their mother's fault. Not Kate's fault.

(If only it was that easy to swallow.)

"Don't be sorry," he says, quiet but vehement. "None of this is your fault."

She squeezes his hand but doesn't respond. The smoke makes his eyesight hazy, but he sees tears.

I love you, he wants to say, wants to wipe her tears away as he says it. I love you and I want you to come home.

He doesn't.

Her phone buzzes and she takes a deep breath – composing herself – before answering. "Beckett."

A few moments later, he's watching her walk away. _That was dispatch. I've gotta go,_ was the goodbye he got before she rushed off. Before he even responded.

(Better than watching her disappear in the aftermath of a fight, at least.)

He stays for a while after she leaves, until it becomes too much. Until all he sees is dark hair and green eyes and Kate's beautiful smile on their daughter's face. Their baby cradled in his arms, unmoving and silent. So tiny and so new and already gone.

Eventually, he goes home. The loft's cold and empty now; his mother's barely around (dealing with her grief by avoiding it, watering it down with alcohol), Alexis's at school, and she never knows what to say to him either way. He's completely alone, but it's best this way. Forcing a smile, forcing himself to act casual, it's exhausting. Sociability doesn't come so easily to him anymore.

(Plus, it's easier to paint a picture on a blank canvas, isn't it? When it's all quiet, he can see them perfectly, his fiancée wife and their little girl. Kate balancing their beautiful baby in her arms while their laughter echoes throughout the loft. He can't even begin to fathom why that's too much to ask.)

Today, after a few aimless moments, he opens his laptop. He hasn't written in months; not one word, not since the loft went freezing.

But he still feels Kate's hand in his and maybe, just maybe, he can hear Nikki's voice in his head again.

* * *

_A/N: Honestly, I don't know how I feel about this. It's okay, I guess. Not my best. But at least it's here, right?_

_Thoughts?_

_-Ellie_


End file.
